When the kiss finally broke, both men were gasping for air, their chests heaving in the dim light of the bedroom. Silas's eyes were misty and unfocused, his lips swollen and red from the Prince's aggression. He looked broken, beautiful, and utterly defeated. Alaric leaned his forehead against Silas's, his breath hot against the Omega's skin.
"Now you belong to me," Alaric whispered, his voice thick with a promise of more to come. "Not because of a lie, and not because of a contract. Because your body has recognized its master. You can try to run, Silas, but you will always come back to me."
Alaric reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled out a pair of thin, elegant handcuffs made of solid gold. He grabbed Silas's left wrist and snapped the metal shut with a sharp click. He fastened the other end to the ornate gold headboard of the bed.
"Rest now, my Ghost," Alaric said, his voice returning to that smooth, royal silk. He leaned down and kissed Silas's forehead with a tenderness that felt more dangerous than his anger. "I'm going to go retrieve my drive from the fountain. And when I return, we are going to have a very long talk about our wedding plans. This time, there will be no more games. You will be at my side, where you belong."
Silas watched him leave, the gold chain of the handcuffs rattling against the wood as he moved his arm. He had lost his mission, his brother was in a cell, and his freedom was gone. But as he licked his lips and tasted Alaric's scent still lingering there, he realized with a sinking heart that he was starting to lose his mind, too. The Ghost was dead; only the Prince's mate remained.